


the battlements of winterfell

by Adadzio



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aged up Sansa, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Multi, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: I am not spying, Sansa thought, even as she pondered the broadness of his shoulders.





	the battlements of winterfell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fat_joey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fat_joey/gifts).



> Look, fatjoey gave me this idea like 84 years ago and I never posted it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ This is book verse BUT for the sake of me not feeling like a creep, Sansa is aged up!!
> 
> xx

Walking had become a pastime for Sansa, all the more now that a southron court had occupied her castle. When she could no longer stand the crowds, she would climb the battlements and gaze out over her lands, letting the cold clear her mind of its frantic whirring. When she was atop Winterfell she could breathe clearly, could forget about Lady and Father and Robb and poor, poor Jeyne. Such was the tenuous peace that Stannis Baratheon had brought.

He, too, liked to walk along the walls. She had blushed the first night she glimpsed his tall form, though she could not say why, and ducked into the nearest tower to peek at the king's restless pacing. Sansa did not know why she felt nervous watching him, why she didn't simply walk past him with a nod of her head, like the courteous lady she was. This was her home, after all,  _her_ _castle_. And yet a break in the stones became her usual spot to observe him from, tucked away in the easternmost tower, concealed quietly within its walls. He was like Robert and Renly in colouring and build; raven-haired, blue-eyed, a great hulking warrior of a man — but that is where the similarities ended. This king was not jovial or charming, but hard like iron, a commander without weakness. He did not seem to care for his wife and she had little warmth to offer him in return. If theirs had been a happier marriage, perhaps the king would be abed with her instead of pacing the battlements each night.  _I am not spying_ , Sansa thought, even as she pondered the broadness of his shoulders. _It is harmless curiosity._

Then came the heat, alerting Sansa that something was different about tonight. _The priestess_ , she realised. She had arrived only a fortnight ago with the queen and princess, but Sansa had learned that warmth radiated off her wherever she went. She felt it even now, felt it creeping along the walls through the frigid air until it met her own skin. 

“Lady Melisandre,” the king greeted. Sansa was taken aback by his comfortable tone. She had, in her short acquaintance with Stannis Baratheon, only ever heard his voice brusque. That alone always sent a queer tremor down her spine, though he meant nothing intimidating by it. He was perfectly correct and polite with her, had bestowed Winterfell upon her with some ceremony. But he was grim and awkward all the same, with eyes that bore into her like blue bruises. Sansa knew she was a mere pawn in his game, as she had been in King's Landing and the Vale. At the least this southron king had given her back her home. 

His perpetual stoniness had lifted, if just a little, with the arrival of the red woman from Castle Black. This phenomenon did not escape Sansa’s notice.

There were whispers about this woman. When Melisandre of Asshai had first walked into Winterfell's gates behind the queen, all chatter had ceased, all eyes had fixed upon her. Her coppery hair had been tied high upon her head and then gathered again at the nape of her neck, the tail of it flowing over her shoulder and down to her hip, such that her pale neck was exposed and Sansa could only stare, dumbfounded by the young beauty that rivalled her own. Sansa did not trust her, did not trust her pretty smiles or her foreign god. She did not care for her Essosi fashions, unlike some northern ladies who began to wear fox furs and little glittering rubies, hoping to curry favour with the priestess. _Fools_ , Sansa thought. She had played the game of queens before and lost. And this priestess seemed not so much a queen as an empress.

“Your Grace,” Melisandre bowed. “You wished to see me?”

The king waved away the question, and Sansa saw a bit of his usual austerity return. “Were you aware that the queen requested you for prayer?”

Melisandre lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “I did not receive a summons, Sire.”

“Mine arrived first.” The king began to walk west along the battlements without warning, but the priestess followed closely at his heel. _His red shadow_ , Jon had called her, and not in a complimentary way. “Your presence is commanded with me tonight.” 

The priestess pushed back a strand of long hair from her face and smiled. A shiver ran down Sansa’s neck, unbidden, at the sight of her strange red eyes. “The whole evening, Sire?”

It was the king’s turn to cock an eyebrow. “What else? I doubt you will be fit to attend both king and queen in the same night.”Sansa wondered what he meant by that. She crept forward, following at a safe distance in the shadows, until she could dart into the next tower. 

“I fear Her Grace would be displeased with me. I told her that tonight would beauspicious for conceiving a son, and that I would counsel you as much.”

This seemed to irritate the king immensely. “You know I will not hear such foolishness.”

“No, Sire. But if you will not visit her, then perhaps I should not also deny her my company.”

“That is her concern,” he complained. Melisandre hid her hesitation well, but not well enough. The king stopped and turned to her with a frown. “Do you take issue, Melisandre?” She shook her head. “Speak,” he commanded, growing impatient.

“Sire, you know I am yours to command.”

“And you are ashamed of that?”

“I am not, my king.” She gasped when his hand caught a fistful of copper hair. Sansa’s hand flew to her own chest, her heart suddenly aflutter.

“I have waited so long for you.” The king’s voice was low, with no hint of compromise. “Do you recall how many months I marched in the ice, weary and half-starved, thinking I would never reach Eddard Stark's forsaken castle?”

“My king— "

To Sansa’s disbelief he brought his lips to the priestess’s, then, hard and cruel. It was obscene in more ways than one, this king unhinged after everyone had sung of his somber righteousness, denying his noble wife yet lusting after a common priestess. 

To her credit, Melisandre did not respond as sluttishly as Sansa expected her to, and she wondered if perhaps she had judged this woman unfairly. “You mean to deny me,” the king accused her. “Has the Wall turned you to ice?”

“R’hllor forbid such a thing…”

“Then do not be so cold to your lord.”

Melisandre had the audacity to smile, a little red curve of her lips. “Sire, you had me but last night.”

 _By the gods_ , Sansa thought, _tis worse than I thought_.

“You know well that your very presence is temptation to a man. It is torture to go a day without you.”

Her fiery eyes flickered toward the castle. “The queen… “

The king raked his knuckles down her cheeks, a smile tugging at his own solemn mouth. “Melisandre, cease this game.”

“Game?” she asked, innocently.

“Yes, by gods, I command it of you.”

“You cannot command such a thing.”

“You have always been my faithful servant,” he entreated, kissing her between words, “mine obedient one, my most leal lady. Will you deny me now?”

After a moment, she lifted her red eyes to his. “I cannot,” she admitted. His kisses grew more fervent, and with each sigh she seemed to surrender more. “You know I cannot deny you, my king.”

He grasped her heart-shaped face in unyielding hands, tipping her mouth up to his so he didn't have to stoop. After a moment, he groaned. "Woman, I will have you now."   

“Out here?” the priestess asked, and Sansa glimpsed more than a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“Yes, here,” he said darkly.

Melisandre seemed surprised. “You would never.” But she did not resist as he bent her over, right there on the parapet.

“Would never what? Take the cunt that is mine?”

Sansa flushed scarlet, pressing herself hard against her stone shelter. _Gentle Mother!_

Big, calloused fingers pulled at the crimson ribbon at Melisandre’s waist, parting her silks until they pooled around her ankles. Her white skin shimmered in the moonlight, smooth and seemingly unaffected by the winter winds. Both women shivered as his palm slipped around between her thighs to cup her _there_. His blue eyes darkened, hand curling tighter about her waist. "Gods, you're soaked already."

“For you,” she confessed.

The king tore at the laces on his breeches and released himself, then abruptly gripped her hips and thrust into her, forcing Melisandre to cry out at the sudden assault. He began moving then, slow, shallow strokes that did nothing but inflame the flutter in Sansa's belly. 

“Please,” Melisandre begged, though Sansa had no idea what she was begging for.

“And just a moment ago you were so distant,” he chided.

“You know I would never deny you,” she purred. “R'hllor forbid—”

“Quiet,” he said sternly.

The priestess obeyed but moved back against him shamefully, like a cat in heat. Stannis's hand went back between her thighs, snaking around her front to stroke her mercilessly. “You said you saw yourself at Winterfell,” he murmured in her ear, "Did you see yourself like this?"

Melisandre bit her lip as the king’s ruthless thrusts intensified, such that Sansa could hear a lewd sound between them. “My king," she panted, the ends of her copper hair dusted with snow from the parapet. She looked resigned in her immodesty, her cheeks flushed with wind and shameless pleasure. “My king, please— ”

Stannis groaned, though from her words or her movements, Sansa could not be sure. “Selyse is a fool to think she can take you from me. She means to steal you away, after I have gone cold months without your warmth.”

“I try to serve you both faithfully…”

“Do you know how often I was delirious for you, thinking to call you to my tent as I did at Storm’s End? We stole so many months before the Blackwater, right beneath the noses of my scandalised bannermen, and through it all I never tired of you. ”

“You loved me well, my king.”

“I want you always like that, flushed and trembling in my bed."

Melisandre pushed back against him, hair falling once more into her face. There was hand on her pale bottom now. And Sansa could feel it as if it were her own body, a tingle building between her legs, warm and itchy and insistent. It coiled through her belly, until her legs were straining with the effort of holding it off. But it couldn't be helped. There were stars flashing in front of her eyes and her pelvis was thrusting against winter air. Melisandre bit back a scream then, too, but couldn't contain it entirely and a little whimper escaped her lips.

"My lady," Stannis soothed her, and for a moment all was silent. 

Then, in one shocking movement, the priestess twisted and knocked him to the stones below, and Sansa did not understand why she was straddling him until she lifted herself above his swollen manhood. _Gods, was it not over?_  She watched in horror as the priestess fit him between her thighs and sank down slowly, mounting him like the horse she sometimes rode around Winterfell for leisure. Sansa had always found it wanton for a woman to ride as this woman did, thighs parted shamelessly atop the beast, straddling it intimately as if she were a man. It was no different to watch her now, this woman who was clearly not nobleborn but quite base. It was as if she were coquetting about the castle as usual, bewitching the heads of every man to turn in her direction — except it was the king she was captivating now, and he needed no spell to be captured by her, by the hair tangling youthfully down her back.

“You are so beautiful,” the king groaned, hoarsely. His fingers caught roughly in that coppery, wind-swept mane. “Such beauty…for me alone.”

“For you,“ she smiled, and rocked her hips forward.

“This, between your thighs, is mine. Mine to bury myself in. Mine. _Only_ _mine_. If I cannot wrest your heart from your red god, I will at least have your flesh.” Sansa could admit the lure of her beauty, could even picture Melisandre's rounded thighs pressed to hers, and suddenly wished to taste the heat of her comely lips. The thought brought shame to her cheeks. Melisandre arched her back gracefully, fingers creeping behind and beneath her to tease along the length of the thing inside her. The king hissed, gripping her narrow waist. “By the gods, woman, stop this torture and let your king finish.”

Melisandre looked amused. “This will ensure that you do.”

He pushed himself up into her, thrusting over and over again until her thighs were trembling again, the ruby at her throat pulsing rapidly. She tried to disrupt his furious pace but Stannis was a strong man, and easily held her in hips in place until she was desperate with want, grinding her sex against him without pride. His hands slid up to cup her breasts, covering them easily. For a moment Sansa imagined herself in Melisandre's place, imagined riding this man so openly like a stallion, his strong hands on her body and his big— 

Sansa burned crimson at the thought of his manhood inside her, stretching her as it now stretched his mistress.  

It was then that she understood all her muddled confusion toward him, the shuddering fear he inspired within her. Sansa could feel the familiar itch returning. Her belly seemed to turn to liquid, running down her thighs, and she hiked up her skirts to avoid staining them. Her knees shook with the onslaught of arousal, until she thought she might lose control once more. “My king," Melisandre gasped loudly, and Sansa wondered how the guards had not yet come running. Madness overtook her and she wished to run out and join them, wished to lie between their bodies with that cock firmly inside her and searing kisses on her breasts. In an instant, Sansa’s own reality narrowed to the little nub between her legs, the sensitive spot along her cunt. She rubbed it furiously and unwound, her entire body shaking in the throes of an intense release. 

“My king,” Melisandre was murmuring again, leaning down to press kisses to the king's jaw and the blue-black shadow of his beard.

Stannis abruptly pushed her off him, tossing her aside onto the snowy stones. But the priestess seemed to understand something and clutched at his hips before he could rise, leaning down until her face was just above his groin. “Melisandre,” he groaned, gripping her hair as if in warning.

“Let me do this,” she urged. 

Sansa’s eyes widened when she glimpsed that part of him, for she had never seen a man fully, nor had she expected it to be so large and angry. _That had been inside her?_ She recoiled, suddenly frightened by her own fantasies.

“You need not pull away, my king,” Melisandre continued. “I have moon tea…” Now the priestess truly seemed a woman in a brothel, her lips brushing up and down his slick manhood.

The king was grinding his teeth so hard that his jaw seemed ready to shatter. “Moon tea,” he said disdainfully, even as he closed his eyes and stroked her scalp with tense hands. Melisandre kissed all along the jut of his hipbone, bringing a white hand to the place beneath his manhood.With the other hand she encircled him and squeezed. He cursed. “Do you think it pleases me that you act so commonly?”

“I think it does,” she whispered. “I think you want me to drink your seed.”

“Seven _hells_ ,” he swore. Pearly liquid splattered all around the priestess's lips, coating mouth and chin. He jerked away, horrified, only to spill the rest over her throat and breast. Melisandre held a hand to her stained mouth, trying to stifle her amusement. Annoyed, the king cursed a final time, falling back heavily against the stones. After a moment he wrenched a kerchief from his doublet, and began to wipe at her damp face.

“You look like those lemoncakes Lady Stark is always eating,” he said wryly. Melisandre made a noise and began to giggle in earnest, throwing her head back to laugh at his good temper. Sansa released an astonished breath, nearly forgetting the depravity of it all. _Nearly_. She felt vaguely affronted that they had tarnished her memory of a favoured delicacy.

The corner of Stannis's mouth twitched up. “Collect yourself, now. What would your god say to see his priestess behave so wantonly?”

Melisandre slung a leg over his as he tended carefully to his mess. “You called your guards off tonight,” she observed.

“They stand a solemn watch at the bottom of the stairs."

"And Lady Sansa?" Sansa stiffened from her hiding place.

"What about her?"

Melisandre smiled coyly. "We are fortunate she does not take evening walks.”


End file.
